“Come at me harder!” he shouted across the field. “Anyone who draws my blood will be forgiven by the king, if he fights fair.” This was a lie, but Siddhartha had seen the nervous glances being exchanged by the archers when he threw off his armor. Goaded on now, his adversaries wanted to prove to the king that they were the best. The next two men charged faster and aimed better. But Siddhartha had taken his training seriously, and he had talent on horseback. When his next arrow missed, he kept his cool and fired again, unhorsing his opponent when they were within a few yards of each other. The crowd grew more impressed, and by the time Siddhartha was down to the last two archers, they were on their feet cheering in earnest.
Kanthaka’s sides were heaving now, and Siddhartha felt a little giddy. He had eaten nothing that morning, and the constant wheeling and maneuvering were making his surroundings whirl. He braced himself because the end of the combat was the toughest part. The last two archers charged him together. Siddhartha had an arrow ready, but his nerves got the better of him and it flew well right of the man he aimed at. His hand fumbled for another arrow.
The bolder of the archers had already gotten off two shots, and the second one was lucky-it found a gap in the padded blankets that protected Kanthaka’s front, deeply piercing the horse’s skin. Siddhartha felt the animal rear and barely kept his seat. He pulled tight on the reins and closed his thighs around the animal, willing it to calm down and forget its fear. Kanthaka held on, galloping straight for the double enemy, who now closed in, one on each side.
They were too close for Siddhartha to get any arrows off. He heard a cacophony of hoofbeats against the packed earth, and his eyes blurred. He shook his head, and he saw Mara riding behind one of the archers, clutching his arms around the rider’s waist. The demon was laughing, and then he suddenly disappeared. Siddhartha didn’t have much time to refocus his sight. He ducked down close to his saddle as the two enemies whipped past him on either side. They fired, and Siddhartha was fortunate. The arrows flew over his body with a swish of air, missing him.
He wheeled around, and regaining his self-possession, he fired rapidly, first at the back of one horseman, then at the other. His timing was perfect. They were still struggling to turn their mounts around when his arrows hit them, and both men fell. Siddhartha had fired so rapidly that they seemed to go down simultaneously. The crowd roared. For the first time in his life Siddhartha felt exulted by battle; he rose in his stirrups and acknowledged the accolades. This was something, the first thing, he had earned for himself.
But despite his triumph, Mara’s laughter rang in his ears. Siddhartha was disoriented, and he scanned the tournament field. Only one of the archers had gotten to his feet. The other lay on the ground writhing in agony. Siddhartha jumped down and ran over to him. He saw with horror that the man had been hit in the throat, the arrow’s point coming out the back of his neck.
Arms lifted the wounded man to a sitting position, hands tried to dislodge the arrow. He groaned and almost passed out. Siddhartha’s head swam in the confusion. He was dimly aware that someone broke off the arrow’s tip so that the shaft could be pulled through the man’s neck, but this caused a tremendous gush of blood, which shot so far that it hit Siddhartha in the chest.
“Do something,” he pleaded, aware in the midst of everything that his voice sounded high and panicky, more a boy’s voice than a man’s. He looked up to see that the king had arrived. The soldiers parted for him. His father barked for someone to fetch a physician, but by that time the wounded man had lost consciousness, his head limply tilted to one side like a broken doll’s. From the fountain of blood still erupting, but with weaker and weaker force, it was obvious he was lost. Suddhodana pulled out a silk kerchief and pressed it to the man’s wound.
“Did you know him?” asked Siddhartha, although he had no idea why that would matter. His father grimly shook his head. The presence of death quieted the bystanders, until a new voice broke the silence.
“Amazing. Someone was actually hurt. Fire the stagemaster.”
Devadatta pushed his way through the packed bodies surrounding the corpse. He stared at it coldly. “It’s his own fault for missing his cue, isn’t it?” He turned to Siddhartha, whose whole body was shaking. “You couldn’t have fought for real, I can see that.”
The bystanders were shocked, waiting for the king to explode with rage, but Suddhodana kept silent. His guilt told him that Devadatta was right-nobody was meant to get hurt when the prince was involved. He gazed at his son, and Siddhartha instantly read the truth.
Siddhartha willed himself to stop shaking and got to his feet. He drew his sword, glaring at Devadatta. “You said you wanted to fight me today. I accept your challenge.”
“No!”
For a moment it sounded as if his father had shouted, but Channa stepped through the crowd. “No, I’ll fight the bastard. It’s about time.” Channa took two strides, raising his fist to take a swing at Devadatta. But in his wildness he lost his balance, and the blow only grazed Devadatta’s cheek.
Devadatta spit on his palm and wiped his cheek with a look of disgust, as if it were covered with excrement.
“I beg my rights, Your Highness.” Devadatta dropped to one knee in front of Suddhodana. “This low-caste scum touched me. You all saw it. I beg my rights.” The crowd stirred and became uneasy as the king remained immobile and silent for several seconds.
“The king acknowledges Devadatta’s rights.” Suddhodana finally spoke but not with his usual force. “He can decide the fate of any low-caste who has defiled him.”
Devadatta smiled. “Death,” he said.
Suddhodana scowled. “Think carefully. It was just a touch, young prince. Let me remind you, this is a cause for justice.”
“I’m only looking for justice. This scum intended to catch me off guard, knock me over, and then stab me. See, his weapon.”
By now two guards had grabbed Channa and wrestled the dagger from him. Pushed to his knees, Channa shouted, “If that’s what I was going to do, let me finish it!”
Devadatta shrugged and held his open hands out to the king. “My case is proved. Let me have my rights, as you promised.”
“No, let me have mine.”
Without warning Siddhartha was kneeling at the king’s feet beside his cousin, his voice on the edge of rage. “I have the right to fight in place of my brother, and Channa is my brother in everything but name. Everyone knows it, so why pretend? If any man of caste dares to defame Channa, I will fight that man, whoever he is.”
This was the moment that Canki shouldn’t have missed by leaving early. As high Brahmin, he had full authority, over even a king, to decide disputes of caste. These were many and complicated. Scriptures held, for example, that if the shadow of an untouchable fell across the path of a Brahmin, unclean contact had taken place and the Brahmin must return home to bathe. Food touched by someone of low caste could not be eaten by someone of high caste. This was clear enough, but what if the high-caste person was dying and the food was needed to save his life? Canki held court over these bewildering issues. But he had left the scene.
“Get up, both of you,” Suddhodana ordered. With disgust he knew that Devadatta had more right on his side than the prince. Often in the heat of battle a low-caste’s weapon had accidentally nicked a high-caste comrade’s, drawing barely a few drops of blood. But this was enough to condemn the offender to death if the high-caste soldier demanded it. Channa clearly intended to draw blood; the waters weren’t muddied until Siddhartha foolishly intruded. Suddhodana now had no choice.